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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29668017">peachy keen</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/yolks/pseuds/yolks'>yolks</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Eventual Smut, M/M, Oral Sex</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 06:20:10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,099</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29668017</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/yolks/pseuds/yolks</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Your senior year of high school isn't going away that quick.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Sylvain Jose Gautier/Claude von Riegan</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>24</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>peachy keen</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>POV alternates<br/>i mean i guess this is pwp? maybe? enjoy anyway</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Sure that thing won’t bite?”</p><p>It’s the first thing he thought to say. It’s six forty-five in the morning at the little alley right behind school; not exactly prime time or place to be up and awake. Everyone calls this place the dump because it’s where everyone takes their drugs or drinks or cigarette drags. Today, in this little alley, there is a guy, Claude from period two Chemistry, holding in his arms a little cat, black and white and brown-eyed. Sylvain isn’t sure what made him stop. Well – he’s already late anyway. </p><p>“This <em>thing </em>is a defenseless, motherless kitten,” he says, “so I think the chances are pretty low.”</p><p>“If you’re sure.” Sylvain grips his duffel bag’s strap. The place is too dark and dank and there’s a guy he barely knows. Coach Eisner is gonna make him do burpees for sure. </p><p>“Oh hey, good job last Friday. First hat-trick of the season, yeah?”</p><p>“Sure is.” Sylvain fixes a smile. “You watch the games a lot?” </p><p>“Eh, once or twice I think to myself, ‘Why don’t I join that horde of people headed for the sweatiest event the school has?’ and I do.”</p><p>Sylvain thinks there’s something he’s not saying. “It’s one of the few times of the year people feel any sort of emotion other than manic boredom. Good way to pass the time, I say.” He regards the cat properly, nodding at it. “Don’t think Wiemer takes too kindly to pets.”</p><p>“I’m aware. That guy, what was his name? Caspar?” Claude stroked the kitten’s fur, matted in some places. “Freshman year, he brought his cat to school for some assignment and she gave him detention.” </p><p>“You’re bouncing it like a baby in your arms.”</p><p>“I’m calling her… Martha.” The smile Claude wears is mild. His whole face is. The way he stands and carries the cat. But there’s an intensity there too, like looking at a lake you don’t know the depth of. “She’s coming home with me.”</p><p>“Gracious of you.” </p><p>“Wanna come with?” His gaze is stilling. “Could use a hand hopping over the wall now that my hands are full.”</p><p>“The… what?” Sylvain’s brain lags big-time. He checks behind to see if Coach is standing there waiting to drag him by his ear, then runs after Claude, who’s already walking off. “What wall?”</p><p>He follows him to an area he’s never been before. There’s a forest-y hill behind them. It seems a little out of the town’s bounds. Right, the wall. It’s concrete and goes about halfway up this huge oak tree. Sylvain stands there, agape. </p><p>“Okay. So, usually, I’d go up there to that branch and then slowly drop down to the other side, but I’d need two hands for it.” Claude glances at him. “How good are you at climbing trees?” </p><p>“Um. Pretty averagely okay. Scaling flat walls, though? Not super confident about that.” </p><p>“Hah, don’t worry, you’re not gonna have to scale it. You’d be crazy, or Leonie.”  </p><p>Sylvain recalls Leonie, this spry ginger girl, from woodworking class. She’s good at PE – sports, gymnastics, circuit, you name it – but you wouldn’t be able to guess by her slightness. She could definitely find a way to climb this thing barehanded. Shoeless even. </p><p>Claude claps a hand over Sylvain’s shoulder. Sylvain glances at it, the deft fingers and long palm, and then his face. The green of his eyes, clear and cool against warm skin, meets his for a second before moving away, up towards the tree.  “Here’s what I’m thinking.” Oh, right, he’s on the debate team. Their captain. Sylvain listens and does what he’s told. </p><p>“Not that I’m judging you,” Sylvain blows hair out his face, halfway up the tree, “but this is a lot for a shortcut.”</p><p>“Walking gets boring! Live a little. Okay, careful, careful… hey, look, you’re at the top. How’s Martha?” </p><p>The view is of a house, big and foreboding. Dark blue roof, nice, clean garden. Huge, boxy black car, a pitbull snoozing by one of the tires. There’s a flower bed in full bloom. Martha lets out a teeny mewl; Sylvain checks on her, hanging out in his duffel bag, cushioned by his towels and change of clothes. “She’s fine. Hey, I’m really hoping this is your house.”</p><p>“It is.” He sounds much closer all of a sudden, and then he’s next to Sylvain. Sylvain helps him up by the hand. “Now… the descent.”</p><p>“Can’t wait.”</p><p>Claude gives him a nudge. “The hard part is behind us, my friend. C’mon.” </p><p>So the debate captain saves cats and climbs walls and lives in a mansion. </p><p>They feed the cat, give it some water, then realize they won’t make it to homeroom if they stayed and bathed it. Wiemer is a bitch about tardiness. Detention isn’t worth it. So they pulled out the dog’s old bed, made a shoddy little litter box, and left Martha in Claude’s bedroom with a small bowl of kibble and water. They head back to school and find their friends the moment they walk through the gates. It wasn’t really the place for a goodbye but Sylvain wishes he had said see you later. The day rolls by slowly. Sylvain ends up getting detention with Felix anyway. They had forgotten their school ties. </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Claude imagines a world that’s a little less fond of keeping things pretty. He imagines a Sylvain Jose Gautier that cares less about the angle of his smile or how he pitches his voice. He thinks maybe it’s possible, someday. </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Sylvain heads to the rooftop after Chemistry. This is his routine now – spending his free block going to the rooftop after class to lean against the railing and watch the town four floors up. He likes it, the lack of faces and sounds, the lack of everything but plants and bugs and the bubbling of the man-made pond. Lysithea’s greenhouse next to it is barred off for everyone except her and her little science group. Apparently it’s a graded project. No matter how many times Sylvain asks, she won’t let him near it. She gets scary about it, so he’s stopped. </p><p>The elevator dings and Claude steps out. Their gazes meet immediately, like Claude knew exactly where to look. </p><p>“So this is where you run off to.”</p><p>Sylvain takes the lollipop out from between his lips. “Hello to you too, Claude.” </p><p>“Isn’t the point of vanishing to be totally hidden away from everybody?” </p><p>“You’re just that good. Nosiness pays off.” </p><p>“Well that’s a strong term. I’m merely curious about you.” Claude’s grinning, a small cat-like thing. He settles next to Sylvain. There's space for one more person between them. “Caught you staring in class.”</p><p>“Ah, so you were staring back?”</p><p>“You need only ask, Sylvain. I would’ve been honoured to be the Great Gautier’s lab partner.” </p><p>Sylvain snorts. “Okay, first of all, it’s <em>Gautier the Great</em>, and second of all, I didn’t think it was gentlemanly or right to ignore the girl asking me.”</p><p>“Of course, of course.” Claude looks off into the clouds or row of houses or whatever. </p><p>“What brings you here? Apart from me, obviously. You know, this is the part in movies where they get closer and closer, and then…”</p><p>“You’re just as smooth-talking as they say. But no, uh, Ms. Casagranda sent me. Said she wanted to speak with you before the day ends. Judging by the way you just slightly curled in on yourself, I’m guessing you already know what it’s about.”</p><p>Sylvain holds back a sigh. “I have an inkling.”</p><p>“Grades?”</p><p>“She thinks I could be doing way better than I am. She tutors me every other day.” He straightens up. There’s a nasty stabbing in his chest. Adult loneliness is the worst. It’s not the grades. It’s never been about the grades. </p><p>Claude falls silent with realization. “Nothing like annoying one-on-ones with teachers.”</p><p>Sylvain picks dirt out from under his thumbnail. Why does he put up with it? How much? </p><p>“You hungry?” Claude asks, nudging him. “I’m feeling it a bit.”</p><p>“Starving.”</p><p>“I’ll treat you.”</p><p>Sylvain flashes him a really, really nice smile. “Wow, hey, you should be my messenger more often.” </p><p>Claude raises a brow. “Not for free, but I guess I wouldn’t mind.” </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>The next time they meet it’s because Claude convinced him to come over to his place. It didn’t take much. Sylvain’s supposed to be taking a pop quiz and Hanneman doesn’t super like arranging retakes but that’s all <em>whatever</em> compared to Claude. </p><p>“There are things I only tell people I like.”</p><p>“Okay.” Sylvain leans against the cabinet, arms crossed against his chest in practiced nonchalance. “As somebody that has been spending quality time with you this past month I’d be offended I’m not one of those people already.”</p><p>“You didn’t let me finish. That is to say, I like you, Sylvain, and I think it’s safe to say you like me too. Yeah? So, I just wanted to say thank you.”</p><p>“For… what exactly?”</p><p>“Letting me get to know you. I had fun. You had fun. All things considered, I’m glad it was you.” </p><p>“Okay… I don’t really get it, but sure. All things considered, I’m pretty stoked to get to talk to you for real.” </p><p>“Would you say it’s been a pleasure?” Claude runs his pointer finger along his wooden desk, the end of it making a short line down the surface, and Sylvain imagines it’s his skin, and shivers a bit. </p><p>“Of course it is.”</p><p>Claude switches out the record from the vinyl player on the bedside table, cozied up with the orange lava lamp. Sylvain entertains the thought of Claude not knowing what to say and that’s why he’s doing that. But – no. That’s not Claude. The walls are white with pale green trimming where they meet the floor, wooden and creaking under Sylvain’s feet. Maybe he should’ve taken his socks off. And then he realizes,</p><p>“Hey, The Buttertones.” The guitars in <em>Dionysus</em> starts up, and he grooves to the drums that follow soon after. “Nice.”</p><p>“It’s good stuff.” Claude smiles, and it’s brilliant, and – it’s a little like Dionysus’ himself, maybe, mirthful and velvety, cut by how unmoving his eyes seem. “Didn’t take you for a Buttertones guy.” </p><p>“Yeah? How different am I from that guy you made up in your head?”</p><p>“I have never made you out to be anything, Sylvain. Mm, that sounds harsh. What I mean is, I didn’t have a preconceived notion of who you are as a person, considering that I didn’t know you at all.”</p><p>“Sure. Yeah, that’s fair, Claude.” Sylvain checks out the vinyl player, drops his duffel bag near the bass guitar leant against the side of the wardrobe, shoulders inches away from Claude’s own. Claude’s a little shorter, so, well, it’s nearer to his neck than anything. “Best track?”</p><p>“Good question.” The next song plays, as if on cue. Claude’s smile reappears. “This one.”</p><p>Between the song and Claude, smooth and effortless, Sylvain loses his metaphorical footing a bit, brain jumping out the window. Being too slick for your own good, says the song. Dancing all fuckin’ night with someone. Sylvain’s heart rate picks up. Claude’s asking it. There’s no sound coming from him, his mouth isn’t open, but he’s stepping in, closing the barely-there gap, and there it is. Sylvain’s breath catches pathetically when Claude ghosts his lips over his. Testing.</p><p>“Nice,” Sylvain says, barely thinking, fogged up by Claude, by the swooning vocals and guitars running across his ears. “I liked that first track myself.” Claude’s smile is white and bright and he’s so close, warm, heat searing through the palm he brings to Sylvain’s side, drifting lazily to his hips. </p><p>“That one’s good too.”</p><p>Sylvain wants it under his shirt.</p><p>They kiss. When they kiss it’s pure sensation. Nothing like the ones Sylvain’s shared under bleachers and in the lab after school, lips bored and mind travelling. This one’s the holy-shit-inducing, kaleidoscopic, microscope macro of a cross-section of some plant or animal kind of kiss. It keeps you there. And of course Claude’s a good kisser. Smart mouth in all sense of the phrase. Claude runs his teeth along Sylvain’s lower lip, a light graze, and sucks it, and Sylvain makes a noise, and thinks this will never happen again, not with anyone, not in a million or two years, and he fists the fabric of Claude’s shirt, bunching it up over his back.</p><p>“Wonder what they’d say about their debate captain sucking face with another dude in broad daylight,” Sylvain says, and it’s mostly ‘cause all the blood’s rushing to his dick, making him stupid, and it’s way too late to refine or take back, but Claude says, “Rich from the soccer team’s rising star,” and Sylvain grins, thumb dipping under the waistband of Claude’s boxers, tugging a bit.</p><p>“Not my problem.” He lets go and it snaps back against the skin there.</p><p>Claude’s eyes drop to his mouth. “Same here.”</p><p>The bed’s not made for two people, at odds with how big the room is (maybe that's the way Claude likes it?), but the lack of space gets Sylvain hotter for some reason. He gets between Claude’s legs, wastes no time getting his dick out his boxers. He doesn’t miss the soft laugh Claude lets out. He’s not intimidatingly big, but he’s got a nice weight and length and Sylvain <em>knows</em> it can fit in his mouth perfectly, he can just shove it in there everywhere and get him deep.</p><p>
  <em>My smooth-lovin’ lady… she’s so nice… she don’t think twice…</em>
</p><p>Fuck, how nice it’d be, Sylvain thinks, to be that lady for him. He wouldn’t mind being that lady for him – being anyone, really, ‘cause whatever Claude wants him to be or do, he’ll do it no question. </p><p>What would Ingrid think. What would Felix, or Dimitri, or Dedue, all the other guys, they’d think him nuts. He is. Sorry, Cap. Sorry, team. He’s nuts for Claude, crazy for him. This isn’t his first with a guy, or his second, or his last. There’s this all-boys school a mile away, all types under the sun. He thought that was all he needed. He’s eyed a lot in Garreg Mach and tested the waters with some, but he doesn’t need the talking to go that far. Claude exhales when Sylvain takes him in, half-hard. When Sylvain pulls off later, it’s to a song change. His mouth is wet and nasty, precome and spit combined. Claude’s dick, the fan whirring above their heads trying to cool them off – it’s good. So good. This is it. He stops thinking. </p><p>“You got lube?” Sylvain wipes the sides of his mouth with the back of his hand.</p><p>“Uh… yeah.” Claude scans his room, licking his lips, then drifts back towards Sylvain. “You’re prepped?”</p><p>“<em>Oh</em>, no-no, we’re not doing that today, I just wanna blow you. But I need lube, ‘cause I like it, and I have a feeling you’re gonna like it too.” Sylvain smiles. </p><p>“Right.” Claude smiles back, flips a strand of hair that fell over his eye. “I’ll take your word for it.”</p><p>The lube’s in the far right corner of Claude’s wardrobe under a pile of strategically placed “dirty clothes” where his snooping sixteen-year-old sister wouldn’t even think to go near. Sylvain drips it over Claude’s slit, spreads it all along his shaft, slowly works him with his fist, and they don’t go in for another kiss. Meanwhile, <em>Jabberjaw</em> plays. Yeah, he’ll shut up and let his mouth do its thing without words. He was born for this. Born to be between Claude’s gorgeous fuckin’ legs. He rests his hands on Claude’s thighs, gets on his stomach, gets comfortable, and takes, takes, takes all of him in one slippery, fell swoop. Claude groans, hips canting up to meet more of Sylvain’s throat. That’s it. <em>Baby Doll’</em>s ascending and descending guitars drown out the sloppy sucking sounds that follow.</p><p>Sylvain, Christ. Taking it all so easily it doesn’t even seem like he’s trying. The small frown between his brows says otherwise, though. Says he <em>is</em> trying. He’s good at it, but he still tries. It’s hot that he does. A hard-worker even off the field. Claude’s jaw loosens and he lets out a small moan, toes curling when he gets to the back of Sylvain’s throat. So tight and willing, fuck, he doesn’t even gag. Claude cranes his neck up and tries to breathe. He’s getting lightheaded, noises being pulled out of him. His knee jerks when Sylvain goes up again. </p><p>Nothing escapes Claude, and especially not a tall, good-looking redhead with a reputation preceding himself. People talk so much. They talk all the time. Claude doesn’t join in, but he’d entertain it if someone throws him a line. From day one he’s wanted to see if Sylvain <em>was</em> this player, slut, <em>king of intercourse</em>, <em>cum-dumpster supreme</em>, whichever one of those four. He watched him on the field, running, defending, checking balls, jersey sticking tight to his chest, sweat-sheen wild grin popping up on the occasions when he’d land a goal. In those moments, the whispers suddenly don’t matter. Suddenly it’s <em>best midfielder in five years</em>, <em>Gautier the Great</em>, <em>Garreg Mach High’s killer kicker</em>. In those moments, he’s respected, and loved, and adored, and girls from neighbouring schools would try and get pictures with him and he’d say yes, and the underclassmen would chatter like mice about how he and Dimitri are going to carry the team farthest.</p><p>From the stands Claude would watch a veil of thoughtfulness, bordering on solemnity, take over the guy completely. Wildfire concentration, this Claude decides – the kind that doesn’t take hold until later, but once it does it spreads and spreads until he’s this severe machine running up and down the field, taking over and receding, strokes of red and blue against green and white. Thick, hardened calves, hardened middle, long limbs set with muscles almost fully formed.</p><p>In those moments, Claude thinks there’s gotta be more to him. Way more than the names and the talking. Way more than the sports and dirty sex.</p><p>Eh, maybe there isn’t and it's his mind getting ahead of himself. </p><p>Sylvain’s hard, obscenely porn-like the way his lower half is twisted onto his side, dick tenting the polyester of his shorts riding up his thighs, boxers peeking out above the waistband. His hips are desperate, going nowhere, but he doesn’t palm himself. It’s like he’s trying to come just from this. He probably could. Shit. That’s all it takes? All it takes is for Claude’s dick to be in his mouth to get him to come? That gets Claude to an almost-breaking point, breaths pushing out from his lungs, the knot in his lower belly getting tighter. </p><p>Claude swallows. “I’m close.”</p><p>Sylvain slurps the head and it pops out his mouth, getting a stripe of wetness on the side of his face. Lips bright and parted, he says, “Yeah.”</p><p>Dark lashes and light browns, strands of hair falling from where he’s pushed it back; Sylvain runs his mouth along the shaft, nose brushing against the skin. He goes down, then up, then back around the head of his dick. Claude’s head falls back. <em>She’s At Ease</em> pours into the room. He goes down, this princely thing, mouth of a fucking angel, on a dick, Claude’s dick; there’s this quiet groan of approval when it fills up his throat again, and his eyes flutter shut, fingers flexing on Claude’s thighs, and Jesus fuck he’s really getting off on this as much as Claude is, maybe a little more, star midfielder of the fuckin’ soccer team, getting his rocks off with a mouthful of cock –  </p><p>When Sylvain’s lips slide back up to the head, Claude’s eyes snap shut as he comes in what he could only describe as an ungraceful, worm-like juddering of the body, short-stopped by a clipped moan, and it’s almost embarrassing if not for the music continuously playing. He comes until he can’t, comes in Sylvain’s mouth, on Sylvain’s face, his neck, the way Sylvain wants, and Claude wonders if he really had the upper hand on this one.</p><p>Sylvain crawls up into Claude’s lap and he feels like he’s gonna die. In a good way. With Claude’s jizz all over his face, he kisses him, steals his breath away some more; Claude’s hip jolts up into his hand, half-hard again just like that, and Sylvain tugs his shorts down and then they’re rubbing their dicks together like horny kids at some movie theater. Sylvain’s dumbed down to noises, head lolling backwards, back arched, and he must look so slutty right now, pants pulled halfway down his thighs with knee high socks, and he hopes Claude is seeing it and loving it and he hopes he never forgets it. He hopes he talks to him again. He wants to have Claude’s lips on his so bad, but he’s close, so-so close, more, more, oh just a little <em>more</em> – </p><p>He jizzes all over Claude’s lap and his own stomach, almost falling backwards, gasping. He’s never come this hard before. It almost hurts. It only makes him come longer. Fuck, is that disgusting? Claude comes again, moments after. He hopes Claude was watching him. He hopes the sheer view was what made Claude come.</p><p>The vinyl plays on.</p><p>Outside the birds sing and make nests. It’s probably two in the afternoon right about now. He should be sat in class taking that Bio quiz. Man. Skipping the last two periods to blow a guy after practice – the debate captain, of all guys. Sylvain really doesn’t wanna think about that. He also really doesn’t wanna think about how nice it feels lying on Claude’s bed, by Claude’s feet, soaking up the smell of jizz or whatever, crosswise with legs scurrying off the side of the bed. He stares at the ceiling fan and tracks it, round and round and round. He made him come twice. </p><p><em>La Bamba</em> starts up, manic and happy. </p><p>“What a song to end this,” Claude says.</p><p>Sylvain glances his way, glazed-over and tired. </p><p>“To cover this type of song is pretty unusual for them,” Claude goes on. “Don’t you think?”</p><p>Sylvain taps his fingers along his stomach. “It fits.”</p><p>“Yeah, well, sure, but it’s still off-kilter. Just look at their other albums. None of ‘em sound like this.”</p><p>Sylvain closes his eyes. Nothing feels real. “One of them does. From their latest album, I think. I don’t think it’s all that unusual, actually.”</p><p>“<em>Actually</em>, yes it is, dear Sylvain, because that song, and I know exactly the one you’re referring to, has a totally different colour. It’s the colour.” </p><p>“Colour, schmolour, Claude, this coverfollows the Buttertones formula down pat – it’s got all the ingredients for their other songs. If you took it upside down, shook it, it’d turn into one of their louder songs.”</p><p>“Now, something tells me you’re not listening properly–”</p><p>“<em>I’m </em>not listening?You’re pushing it…”</p><p>“Okay, let’s say you do have better ears and analysis skills than me. I’ll agree to disagree.” </p><p>Sylvain shakes his head. “Yeah, whatever, Claude.”</p><p>What follows is a pleased-as-punch laugh. “Hah, so you do give up.”</p><p>The sun’s rays push past the curtains, turning the dark red fabric the colour of marmalade. A beam of light shines through it into the dim room; Sylvain reaches up and barely touches it with his fingertips. This is the point, under normal circumstances, where he’d be jumping into his clothes to take his leave, or waiting for the other one to finish up in the shower before he sees them off. </p><p>Claude sits up, and Sylvain hears him sniff and shuffle around. The bed dips. His phone dings. Sylvain rises as well.</p><p>“Where can I shower?” </p><p>“Ah, just outside, on the right there’s a door with a blue sign on it that says bathroom. Towels are in there.” Claude’s sagged against the headboard, shirt and hair dishevelled, boxers pulled back up, drops of come splattered across his thighs. </p><p>Sylvain breathes in, breathes out. “Sweet.”</p><p>In the bathroom he strips, wipes himself off, and gets cleaned with the water warm-hot. He focuses on nothing else but the routine of it. The splashing. The brief quiet when he’s lathering up, the steam fogging up everything. Funny how this time, this isn’t his favourite part of the hookup. Real funny. He wants to be out there, with Claude. Chatting. Whatever. He wants to save more cats together. He wishes they were together. He’ll carry this to his grave. There isn’t much space left. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>[gets stressed out] [immediately writes sylvain porn]<br/>when i tell u i fuckin wrote the entire smut part at work, braver than any troops out there. then i remembered when my friend and i were talking about claudevain and how similar they are to each other and after i finished the nsfw i was like hm ok lemme stick that in here somehow<br/>sylvain in a soccer uniform [drools]<br/>UMM pretend the buttertones' self-titled has more songs.. i realised it was way too short and there wasn't enough songs to match the mood so i took a song from another album LOL</p></blockquote></div></div>
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